DF02 - Dead Guilty

by Beverly Connor

  The policemen were on duty, parked in front of her house. She parked and got out with the coffee and doughnuts she’d gotten for them on the way back and handed them through the window.

  ‘‘Thanks. We appreciate this.’’

  One of the policeman walked her to her apartment, apologizing along the way. ‘‘Jim and I are just really sorry about the mix-up last night.’’

  ‘‘This whole business has all of us baffled,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I appreciate your being here.’’

  He walked with her inside and to the stairs before going back to his car. Diane decided that there may be something to the theory about getting to a man’s heart through his stomach.

  She walked up to her apartment and went in. It was stuffy. She hated running the air-conditioning when she wasn’t there, but this wasn’t good either. She turned on the air and went to the bedroom, changed and settled into bed.

  She was almost asleep when a voice out of the dark ness said, ‘‘I really want to talk to you.’’

  Chapter 36

  Diane didn’t realize she had shot out of bed until she was halfway out her bedroom door. She made it to the front door and grabbed at the safety latch. Too slow. He grabbed her from behind and held her in a tight grip. She got out half a scream before a hand clamped over her mouth.

  ‘‘I just want to talk. I’m not going to hurt you.’’

  Diane kicked, but with bare feet she did little dam age. Dammit, I’m stronger than this. She wrenched her body around, throwing them both to the floor. She hit her head on the hard floor, stunning her for a second, but her body was on automatic. She scrambled to her feet and raced for the bedroom, intending to lock her self in and call 911. But he was too fast. Before she could close the door, he hit it with enough force to knock her backward. She fell to the floor and rolled under the bed.

  She saw the shadow of him on his knees grabbing for her, sliding under the bed after her. She rolled out, got to her feet, grabbed the radio on her nightstand and brought it down on his head as he crawled out from under the bed.

  His struggle to rise was hampered by still being half under the bed. She hit him again, harder, dropped the radio and ran. The safety was unlatched from her first attempt at escape so all she had to do was turn the locks and bolt from her apartment. As she ran down the stairs, she hoped the police hadn’t decided they had to go somewhere else. She ran down the walk and into the street, each step hurting her bare feet. Half way across the street the police saw her.

  ‘‘What is it?’’ they shouted.

  ‘‘He’s in my apartment.’’

  ‘‘Stay here.’’ They jumped from the car and Diane

  climbed in the backseat, breathing hard. Bile rose up in her throat and she felt sick to her stomach.

  Diane wore a fleece short-sleeved nightshirt that came halfway between her knees and thighs. The last place she wanted to be was in the back of an unmarked police car dressed in sleepwear. Damn him.

  A gunshot echoed through the air. Oh, God. She put a hand on the door and started to open it, then stopped. She was still undecided on whether to get out. One of the policemen came running.

  ‘‘We got him. An ambulance is coming, but I’m not sure he’ll make it.’’

  Diane felt sick all over again. ‘‘Can he talk?’’

  ‘‘He’s in and out.’’

  ‘‘I need to ask him some questions.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  ‘‘In case he dies, I need to ask him some questions.’’

  ‘‘Okay. I suppose it’s all right. You are a member of the department, after all.’’

  Diane thought he’d like to add a rather troublesome member. She ran back up to her apartment, where the other policeman had a towel on the intruder’s chest. Diane knelt down by his side. ‘‘Can you hear me?’’

  ‘‘Just wanted talk. Not a murderer. Exec . . .’’ His breathing was labored and he started to cough. ‘‘Can’t trust the police.’’ He closed his eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness.

  He was still alive but unconscious when the ambu lance came and took him to the hospital. Diane sat on her couch in a pair of jeans and the nightshirt, waiting for the police to ask her questions. When she came back to her apartment, she’d passed her landlady and several of her neighbors, including the Odells across the hall. She wondered if it was time to look for another place to live before she was asked to leave.

  She was ministering to cuts on her feet when Garnett arrived. ‘‘You need medical?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Just a few cuts on the soles of my feet. How’s the officer who shot . . .’’ She let the question trail off.

  ‘‘He’s all right. A shooting’s always hard. He thought the guy was drawing a gun. It turned out it was his cell phone. Can you tell me what happened?’’

  Diane told him about going to bed and hearing the voice just as she was about to fall asleep. She told about the struggle as best she remembered and about hitting him in the head with the radio.

  ‘‘I talked to him after he was shot. He said he just wanted to talk, that he wasn’t a murderer.’’

  Garnett shook his head. ‘‘Think he’s our guy?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. He may be just a stalker.’’

  ‘‘You can’t come in here.’’ The voice was from a policeman outside her door.

  ‘‘Tell Dr. Fallon that Frank Duncan is here.’’

  Diane recognized the calm voice even through the door.

  ‘‘Ask them to let him in,’’ she said.

  Garnett obliged, and Frank came in and sat down beside Diane, putting an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘‘What on earth happened?’’

  Garnett explained while Diane put a couple more Band-Aids on her feet.

  ‘‘Is he the guy who attacked you last night?’’ asked Frank.

  ‘‘I don’t know,’’ said Diane. ‘‘How did you know something happened?’’

  ‘‘Izzy called. I think he’s trying to make up for being a horse’s ass. Get some clothes and come spend the night at my house.’’

  Diane nodded. That sounded safe. She was sure her neighbors would feel safer if she were gone. Her new est neighbors must think this kind of thing happened to her every night.

  As she left, Veda Odell, the neighbor across the hall, stuck her head out. ‘‘Marvin says he’d rather have a load of cats living next door than you.’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Odell,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I can’t say as I blame him.’’

  Diane called Garnett the next morning from the crime lab the minute she arrived. ‘‘What’s his status?’’

  ‘‘Critical. He seems to be hanging in there. Hasn’t been conscious for more than a few minutes at a time. Won’t talk when he is.’’

  ‘‘Do you know who he is?’’

  ‘‘He had no identification on him. We found what we believe is his vehicle. Stolen plates, no registration. And like I said, he isn’t talking. We’re sending you a copy of his fingerprints.’’

  ‘‘Here they are now.’’

  David stood in front of her with an envelope in his hand. David, Jin and Neva had been hanging around her desk as if she might disappear if they looked away for a moment. Jin was stretched out on the sofa. Neva perched on the edge of one of the chairs.

  ‘‘These are fingerprints of the guy who came into my apartment last night. Check them against all our crime scene prints and every fingerprint database we have access to. We need a match if there’s one out there.’’

  ‘‘I’ll get on it,’’ said David. ‘‘I’ve just installed a new identification algorithm. I’m anxious to try it out.’’

  ‘‘Jin. Find out how the GBI is doing with the shed hair project.’’ She took a key off her key chain. ‘‘Go to my apartment and get some of his blood off my floor or on the towel they used to cover the wound, and take it with you to Atlanta. See if we can match it.’’

  ‘‘Neva.’’ Diane picked up a piece of paper from her desk. ‘
‘This report from the bone samples came back yesterday. All of our victims grew up in the northeast ern United States. Sheriff Braden isn’t having any luck with missing persons. I want you to scan your drawings and save them as graphic files, JPEG, GIF, whatever works best on the Internet. I want you to locate a professional list serve, discussion board or whatever it’s called for plastic surgeons. Post the drawings of Blue and Green Doe, and see if anyone recognizes either of them. Mention where they grew up, Green’s heart condition and Blue’s tattoo of a butterfly on her ankle.’’

  ‘‘I could do the same thing with the tattoos,’’ said Neva. ‘‘Look for a discussion board about tattoos. Might get something.’’

  ‘‘Good idea. Okay, guys, you have your assign ments.’’ Diane stood up. ‘‘I’m going to be working in the museum if you need me.’’

  ‘‘You seem hyper today,’’ said David.

  ‘‘Hand-to-hand combat does that to you.’’

  ‘‘You weren’t hurt, were you?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘I’m fine. When I finally got to a safe bed, I got a good night’s sleep.’’

  ‘‘You’ve had some reporters calling,’’ said Andie, eying Diane as she came through the office.

  ‘‘What did you tell them?’’

  ‘‘That I didn’t know what the heck they were talk ing about. What the heck were they talking about?’’

  Diane described the events of the previous evening, trying to make it sound casual, but failing miserably.

  ‘‘He’s in critical condition. Have no idea who he is.’’

  Andie stared at her with her mouth open. ‘‘Is that the guy who sent the flowers?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘How is it that you attract all these weirdos?’’

  ‘‘I have no idea. I’m contemplating hiring someone to steal that interview the TV station has on file so they can’t play the damn thing again. I thought I was just giving generic answers, but they certainly seemed to set this guy off.’’

  ‘‘He was in your bedroom all the while?’’

  ‘‘Apparently so.’’

  ‘‘That’s creepy, not to mention scary.’’

  ‘‘I’m going to get some work done. I want only museum business calls. Send all reporters to the police for information.’’

  ‘‘Dr. F.’’ Korey stood in the doorway. ‘‘I’ve got something you need to see.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘It’s up in the conservation room.’’

  Diane nodded. ‘‘Sure.’’

  She walked with Korey to the conservation lab lo cated on the second floor.

  ‘‘How did our mummy fare on his outing?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘He did fine. When we got him back, I went back in with the endoscope and took a sample of the tumor. That ought to be interesting.’’

  Diane quickened her pace.

  ‘‘You have the amulets up there?’’

  ‘‘Sure do. Great stuff. You haven’t seen them?’’

  ‘‘No, and I would like to.’’

  Korey grinned. ‘‘You’re going to like this, then.’’

  Mike Seger was in the conservation room looking at the amulets when Diane arrived.

  ‘‘You tell her what you found?’’

  ‘‘Not yet. She wanted to see the amulets first.’’

  ‘‘This sounds mysterious.’’ Diane stopped at a table where twenty-one Egyptian artifacts were laid out on a piece of batting. ‘‘These are absolutely lovely.’’

  They were small. The largest piece was a scarab about four inches long. Each piece had a card next to it saying what it was and what materials it was made from.

  The scarab was alabaster and probably had been over his heart. Several small fish figurines made of alabaster and lapis lazuli lay in two rows. An in scribed cylinder of sandstone had the name Senusret III written on it, according to the card. There was another row

  figure made

  SHABTIS.

  of several limestone figurines and a of black steatite that was labeled

  ‘‘That’s a Get Out of Work Free card for the after life,’’ said Korey, as Diane picked up the shabtis and turned it over in her hand. ‘‘According to Jonas, the writing on the back is a spell to let the person send the shabtis in his place if he was ever asked to do work. It seems that’s what the rich folk did in life too. When there was mandatory work to be done, they could send in a sub. The work they were opting out of was the hard labor variety. Seems that ancient Egypt had a big public works program. Very useful when the Nile flooded.’’

  Two figures lying next

  pottery. colored glazed FAIENCE.’’

  ‘‘Kendel says to each other looked like The card was labeled

  faience ceramic is made of lime,

  crushed quartz and alkali and makes a glaze when it’s fired,’’ said Korey. ‘‘She says a lot of their jewelry was made that way.’’

  ‘‘These are wonderful,’’ said Diane. ‘‘They’ll make an incredible exhibit.’’

  ‘‘The designers are already at it. I’ve just about had to run them out of here to get any work done. Can’t blame them, though. This is really fine stuff.’’

  ‘‘Now, what did you ask me up here for?’’

  ‘‘The lawyer for Raymond Waller called and asked us if we could make the arrangement to send the base ball collection to the Negro Leagues Baseball Mu seum. I told him sure, we interact with museums all the time.’’

  ‘‘Certainly, we can handle it. Is there a problem?’’

  ‘‘I think you need to call the lawyer and talk to him. I mean, in order to make sure what’s supposed to go the museum and what’s supposed to go to his heirs.’’

  ‘‘I’m not following,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘You will.’’ Korey and Mike led her to the climatecontrolled vault in the rear of the lab, where he stored the baseball collection.

  Chapter 37

  The vault was cool. Diane shivered and rubbed her hands over her bare forearms. It had rows of shelves filled with items that had to be stored in a stable envi ronment, always kept at the same temperature and humidity. Some items never left the vault until Korey was sure they would not deteriorate outside. Some of the objects couldn’t stand the normal museum envi ronment and had been in the vault since the museum opened. The mummy was there, lying on a table, with the plastic wrapping removed.

  ‘‘Alicia’s working on the wrappings that came with him,’’ said Korey, with a nod of his head toward an other table holding the linen mummy wrappings. ‘‘It’s in pretty bad shape, but we’d like to use it to re wrap him.’’

  A large table in the center of the room held Ray mond Waller’s pride and joy—his collection of arti facts from the Negro Leagues. There was the bat that David mentioned, and the ball. In fact, there were several balls and bats. There were uniforms and pen nants, stacks of photographs, cards, signs and newspa per clippings.

  ‘‘I went ahead and deacidified the paper, checked out the material. I figured you wouldn’t mind me tak ing care of his stuff.’’

  ‘‘Sure. That’s fine.’’

  Korey picked up a handkerchief that had something wrapped in it. ‘‘I was checking out the uniforms for moths and things and I found this stuffed in the pocket of the Birmingham Black Barons uniform with the number ten on it. That’s significant.’’

  ‘‘Korey.’’

  ‘‘I’m getting to it.’’

  He unwrapped the handkerchief. In the center were

  three crystals about the size of marbles, each shaped like two pyramids stuck together at their base. They looked like they were made of clear ice.

  ‘‘When I found these, I called Mike.’’

  ‘‘What are they?’’

  She looked at Mike, who had that amused glint in

  his eyes again.

  ‘‘You tell me,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Are you saying these are diamonds?’’

  Mike no
dded his head. ‘‘Good-quality, uncut dia

  monds. I’ve already mapped and photographed the internal structure—thought it’d be nice to have on file.’’

  ‘‘How much are they worth?’’

  ‘‘Cut price, we’re talking in a range over two hun dred thousand dollars.’’

  ‘‘For three rocks?’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Three very sweet rocks.’’

  Diane shook her head. ‘‘You were right, Korey. We have to call the attorney back and let him know.’’

  She took the stones and let them rest in the palm of her hand.

  ‘‘Damn. This is what the thief was looking for. Where in the world did Raymond get them?’’ she whispered almost to herself.

  ‘‘There is a way to trace a diamond back to the mine of origin,’’ said Mike.

  Diane looked up at him sharply. ‘‘How?’’

  ‘‘Every diamond has a chemical signature that is specific to its origin. It would require drilling a micro scopic hole in it with a laser beam. The only problem is that not all the world’s mines have been cataloged. And there’s also the problem of diamonds mined from alluvial plains that have been washed maybe hundreds of miles from their origin.’’

  ‘‘I’ll present that option to Mr. Waller’s executor.’’

  ‘‘It’s a very new methodology. It was developed to help legitimate diamond dealers. There’s a big blackmarket trade in blood diamonds. Those are the dia monds used to finance the various African civil wars, and most dealers want to make sure their diamonds aren’t part of that trade.’’

  Blood diamonds, thought Diane. She wondered if that would turn out to be an appropriate name for these stones if indeed they were what caused Ray mond’s death.

  ‘‘I’m going to have to tell Garnett too.’’ Diane started to put the diamonds back in the handkerchief.

  ‘‘Here.’’ Mike handed her a jeweler’s box with de pressions in which to fit each diamond. ‘‘Stones like these don’t need to be knocking around against each other.’’

  ‘‘You put them against black,’’ she said, smiling.

  ‘‘Well, since we already know the color, you might as well present them at their best.’’ Mike put the box in a jeweler’s bag and handed it to Diane.